His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream,

HYMN OF THE CITY.

NOT in the solitude

Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
Only in savage wood

And sunny vale the present Deity;

Or only hear his voice

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty!-here, amidst the crowd
Through the great city rolled,

With everlasting murmur, deep and loud—
Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human-kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes

For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;

And this eternal sound

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-

The quiet of that moment, too, is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.

SEVEN long years has the desert rain
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face;
Seven long years of sorrow and pain
I have thought of thy burial-place;

Thought of thy fate in the distant west,
Dying with none that loved thee near;
They who flung the earth on thy breast
Turned from the spot without a tear.

There, I think, on that lonely grave,
Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There in the summer breezes wave
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.

There the turtles alight, and there
Feeds with her fawn the timid doe;
There, when the winter woods are bare,
Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away;
All my task upon earth is done;

My poor father, old and grey,

Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.

In the dreams of my lonely bed,
Ever thy form before me seems:
All night long I talk with the dead,

All day long I think of my dreams.

This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
This long pain, a sleepless pain-
When the Father my spirit takes
I shall feel it no more again.

OCTOBER.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny South! Oh still delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh;

And, when my, last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

CAROLINE GILMAN.

[Born in 1794, daughter of a Mr. Howard. She married a Unitarian minister, and wrote a number of popular works very generally in prose-Recollections of a New England Housekeeper, &c., &c.].

MUSIC ON THE CANAL.

I WAS weary with the daylight,
I was weary with the shade,
And my heart became still sadder
As the stars their light betrayed;
I sickened at the ripple,

As the lazy boat went on,
And felt as though a friend was lost
When the twilight ray was gone.

The meadows, in a firefly glow,
Looked gay to happy eyes:
To me they beamed but mournfully,
My heart was cold with sighs.

They seemed, indeed, like summer friends--
Alas! no warmth had they;

I turned in sorrow from their glare,
Impatient turned away.

And tear-drops gathered in my eyes,
And rolled upon my cheek,

And, when the voice of mirth was heard,
I had no heart to speak :

I longed to press my children

To my sad and homesick breast,
And feel the constant hand of love
Caressing and caressed.

And slowly went my languid pulse,
As the slow canal-boat goes,
And I felt the pain of weariness,
And sighed for home's repose;
And laughter seemed a mockery,
And joy a fleeting breath,
And life a dark volcanic crust

That crumbles over death.

But a strain of sweetest melody
Arose upon my ear,―

The blessed sound of woman's voice,
That angels love to hear.

And manly strains of tenderness
Were mingled with the song-
A father's with his daughter's notes,
The gentle with the strong.

And my thoughts began to soften,
Like snows when waters fall,
And open as the frost-closed buds
When spring's young breezes call;
While to my faint and weary soul
A better hope was given,

And all once more was bright with faith,
'Twixt heart, and earth, and Heaven.

TO THE URSULINES.

Oн pure and gentle ones, within your ark
Securely rest!

Blue be the sky above-your quiet bark
By soft winds blest!

Still toil in duty, and commune with Heaven,
World-weaned and free;

God to his humblest creatures room has given
And space to be.

Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky
To plume his wing-

Space for the ringdove by her young to lie,
And softly sing.

Space for the sunflower, bright with yellow glow,
To court the sky-

Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow, To live and die.